What's on your mind, John?
by Don't let them know
Summary: John is in love with his flatmate, so he decides to find out more about Sherlock's past. Chapter 7 in planning stage.
1. The White Shirt

"What's on your mind John?"

Those five words. What does he expect me to say?

"You, Sherlock are on my mind. You and your obnoxious behaviour, your ridiculous experiments, you waking me up at five in the morning to test blood splatter in sub zero temperatures. You and your high angle cheekbones, your blemishless skin, your ability to take my breath away whenever I think of you."

But I didn't say that, I could never say that.

I'm not gay. At least, I don't think I am. I'm into girls. Normally.

I guess I'd better start at the beginning, it's easier to explain that way. At first he mystified me, I couldn't grasp the fact that such a person existed and was not insane, famous or in some sort of relationship. I moved in with him after just one day of knowing who he was and I never looked back. Romantically speaking though, I guess it started with a white shirt.

We were going through a rough patch. I'd been staying with him for a couple of months and were facing Moriarty. He was giving Sherlock a series of challenges to - well I still don't know why exactly. I guess to relieve boredom. Him and Sherlock are so very alike in that respect. Both of them seek the the thrill of the chase so much, that they're willing to go to obscene measures to fulfil their need.

We were in a swimming pool, where a boy named Carl Powers was murdered aged 14. It was Moriarty's first kill. The one that started his taste for blood. Sherlock had a gun aimed at the vest. I'd never seen him so cold and hard.. But passionate. He knew what he wanted and it was like the gun and him were one. They fused into each other to become a god-like bringer of justice. He looked at me for conformation, then his eyes drifted back to Moriarty. He cleared his throat, moved the gun back up so it was level with Moriarty's head. He smiled and said, "Sorry, but no."

There was a shot. I reacted instinctively, using all of my military-created brute force to get him into the water. It turns out the explosives were fake. Moriarty would never take down such a trophy for himself like the pool. It was just a ruse to get Sherlock to be serious and give his best game, so Lestrade told us. Apparently Moriarty's right hand man handed himself in afterward. His name was Sebastian something. It turns out me and Sherlock weren't the only duo in London with adrenaline cravings.

Back to the shirt though. Do you know what happens when white material gets rugby tackled into a swimming pool? It turns rather see through. Not unattractively.

It kills me to write all this down. (Not like anyone's going to read it anyway, I doubt that there's anyone who looks at the bottom of my underwear drawer. My briefs aren't that interesting.)

We were back at 221B, having answered what felt like three billion questions and Sherlock having gotten into an argument with his brother regarding The Bruce-Partington plans.

His shirt left very little to the imagination by that point. I honest to God swear that was the first time I looked at him -or any man- like that. But it certainly wasn't the last.

The contours of his shoulders, the pale stillness of his chest as it slowly rose and fell with his exhausted, slurred speech. It was good, too good.

I realised that I was stupidly and unmistakably turned on. What was I, a schoolboy? I made some sort of mumbled excuse about being freezing and jumped the steps two at a time up to the bathroom. I peeled off the chlorine-stinking clothes, dumped them in a corner and stepped into the shower. Hot water ran into my face, down my back, to the inside of my thighs. I shook my head and slapped myself. What was happening to me? Had being in the military affected me somehow? All I know is I saw Sherlock with the gun, the cool, shiny, dark metal of the L9A1 and something awoke inside me. This time he was not shooting at the wall in sheer, insane boredom. He was calm and calculating. And beautiful. No. I slapped myself again. I needed to reason with myself. 'He is your flatmate. Your asexual, sociopath flatmate. You are straight. You like waists, breasts, soft lips.' at this thought though, I paused. My mind flitted over to the idea of Sherlock's lips. Sherlock's lips on mine, on my chest, moving down... Oh god.

That was when I realised I was completely and unconditionally in love with him.


	2. Lestrade

**AN: Responding to a review, I've never seen or read Twilight, so any similarities are coincidental...**

**Also, John fangirling over Sherlock is far too easy to write, It's all too familiar ;)**

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><p>Considering how much I awe over him, I'm surprised it took me that long. I guess I'd never really considered how beautiful he was. I mean just look at his collarbones. How can someone have attractive collarbones? So that's pretty much it. From then 'till now, I've contained myself. Hell, he's probably already worked it out from the type of mustard I buy. Oh God. Have I changed the type of mustard I buy? No. Good.<p>

Just look at me, I'm a wreck. I need to do something about this, but I can't. It wouldn't exactly be appropriate to start the day with, "Morning Sherlock, cup of tea? Also, do you mind if I jump your bones?"

Get a girlfriend, John. Get a nice girl. She'll cook and you'll go and see the latest Hollywood releases, go back to hers and sleep together. Mundane. I know if that happened I'd spend the whole time craving Thai food and thinking about how my time could be better spent cracking a cipher or researching bullet shells. I'm turning into him. Am I? Normal people are so dull when your basis for comparison is Sherlock fucking Holmes, the best looking, best named and most clever man I've ever met.

...Did I seriously just marvel about his name?

I need to get laid. But with which gender? Does this mean I'm gay? Will I accidentally scream his name at a crucial point? I've never felt this way about a man before. Girls are easy, you treat them like royalty, flirt with them until you're sick of the sound of your own voice and then they're putty in your hands. Men are complicated, not to mention Sherlock. I asked Mrs. Hudson once if he'd ever had anyone, girlfriend, boyfriend, anyone. Apparently she's never known him to be in any sort of romantic relationship. I'll ask someone else. Next time we're at Scotland Yard, I'll talk to Greg.

Okay I asked him. Here's how it went.

I pulled him aside just as we reached the crime scene, Sherlock didn't notice, since I always walk behind him and he was too busy having a battle of insults with Anderson.

"What's this about John? If you're wanting more data access, I can try and get you some background on this Greene bloke, but there's only so far even I can go before it needs double screening."

"Actually I wanted to ask you something." He looked confused and apprehensive so I quickly added, "About Sherlock."

"Right. Well, you know him better than I do. I doubt there's anything I can tell you that you don't already know."

"This is kind of difficult..."

"Go on."

"The six or so years that you've known him, has he ever been with anyone? It only just occurred to me that I've never heard him talk about his past. He just seems so... Alone."

"No, but then again it's Sherlock, isn't it? For all we know, he could have some Belgian wife in a flat in Mayfair."

"Wife?" I raised an eyebrow and grinned.

He looked around to make sure we were out of earshot of the detective. "Believe me, you're not the first to think that. I'm pretty sure he could get anyone he wants, but he just says solitary."

"But he hasn't had some form of boyfriend either?"

"Doubt it, but again, who knows? I think Mycroft's your best bet if you want to know about Sherlock. I can get you his file from the Yard if you want, though."

"He has a file?"

"Of course, you've seen how much he breaks the law, it hasn't gone unnoticed. Listen, come down in a couple of days. I can give you a copy. Got to be off, I think Donovan's got her battle face on."

He jogged off towards the alley in which the decapitated couple lay, holding hands. I was left standing alone in the spring night. I decided to leave, I doubted he'd miss me.

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><p><strong>This chapter is quite short, as the next's a big 'un. Reviews speed up the writing process ;D<strong>


	3. Mycroft

**AN: This is a big 'un, hold onto your hats. I struggled a bit with Mycroft, but hopefully it's not too out of character. This has become my favourite form of procrastination. Enjoy :)**

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><p>Pacing. Why does pacing aid thinking so much? Here I am, practically working a groove into the hard polished floor of my bedroom and he's asleep. Maybe some tea will clear my mind.<p>

Okay, tea made. Maybe I should talk to Mycroft. Lestrade seems to think it's a good idea, and he gives some of the best advice I've ever known. I'll call him at the surgery tomorrow, you never know who's listening in at this place.

Once, I was on the phone to my sister in my room. We were discussing my current living situation and she was insinuating things. Obviously _now_ that's a fair cop, but then I hadn't realised how much I liked Sherlock. I was even pursuing something with Sarah. (And we all know how brilliantly that turned out...)

I was trying to explain mine and Sherlock's relationship. Obviously we're more than friends, but it has never been romantic and we've never done anything more than hugged for Christ's sake. She was trying to tell me that I was in love with Sherlock and that I hadn't realised yet. On an afterthought, she was terribly accurate.

Anyway, the entire time that this conversation was taking place, a certain young Mr. Holmes was standing outside the door, not missing a word. It's safe to say that the conversation between us the next morning was nothing short of painful. This is why I don't do anything private at home. It just isn't private when your flatmate can tell that you've watched Doctor Who by the state of your shins.

Just got off the phone with Mycroft. He's picking me up when my shift ends.

Why am I nervous?

I swear, it must be a Holmes thing. My palms are sweating.

Shattered. Well that was awkward.

It started with a 40 minute car ride with 'Anthea', no luck there. Again. Then I was searched upon entering the building, I had to put my bag in an X-Ray machine as well. It's like bloody leaving the country. Well if I am, I must be entering Mycroftland, where everything is at right angles, it's at the strictest law that you must drink tea with your pinkie extended and your shoes must shine to the point where they squeak as you walk.

Mycroft extended his hand in greeting, which I shook with a polite smile.

"John, how delightful to see you. You must be parched. Tea?"

"Thanks, it's been a long day."

"So, let's get to the point. What would you like to know about Sherlock?"

I raised my eyebrows.

"Oh don't act surprised. Why else would you come and see me, apart from to ask me to cover up some law you've broken? You've broken no laws, as far as I can tell. And I watch very closely, Doctor Watson."

I fidgeted in my seat uncomfortably. "You know exactly what I'm going to ask Mycroft, and why I'm asking it. You're the one who's acting here. You're acting dumb."

"I have an idea, yes. But i'd like to hear it from your own mouth."

"So you can deduce me?"

He laughed. How can he be so jovial yet so sinister?

"What would be wrong with that doctor? Got something to hide?"

I remained stoic. "Tell me about Sherlock's past."

"Which part? There's 36 years to go through, we might be here for some time."

"Anything significant. Hospital stays, house changes..."

"Romantic attachments?"

"Well yeah, I guess that could be considered significant. For Sherlock at least."

Mycroft simply gave me the most pitying smile. I sighed yet again.

"Just tell me."

"Well, Sherlock was an extremely troubled child. He went completely unnoticed by everyone around him... Including me, unfortunately. I was wrapped up in schoolwork, doing work experience, trying to make connections. Mummy was troubled herself, since as long as I could remember she was on the gin. Father worked very hard, sometimes you wouldn't see him for days, then he'd emerge from his study stinking of tobacco and whisky, acting as if everything was fine.

They had a horrendous marriage, she was afraid of him. She grew up being told to marry someone wealthy and so she did, but she never considered that it would make her terribly unhappy. She tried to take her own life when Sherlock was 26. That was around the time of his first delve into cocaine, but that's for much later in the story.

If you want to get a picture of Sherlock as a child, think of him now, but with much less common sense. I know, it's difficult. He was so eager, so aware of how much of the world there was to explore, and how much he still had to learn. Biology and Chemistry were his favourite subjects, naturally. He detested Physics though. He used to scream to no end about how futile it was, and how it had no practical purpose for later in life.

As you can imagine, this did not best impress his teachers and peers. He would leave the house at three in the morning and simply walk around the West end, to get a feel of the streets. Even at such a young age, he was in love with the city. He would disappear for hours on end, only to come back completely filthy and sleep deprived.

As he grew up, he grew more isolated. He did everything alone, to the point where he simply could not hold himself in social situations. He couldn't get through a single conversation, which made people detest him. In turn, this made him even more isolated and even worse at talking to people. It was a vicious circle, one that seemed relentless."

"Did he ever... See anyone?"

"How so?"

"Well, Was he ever diagnosed with anything?"

"No. No-one bothered. But I suspect, and I know that you do, that he has Aspergers syndrome."

"Well, he shows all the symptoms, while I've been living with him I've become almost certain."

"He was ignored, John. Not to the point of child abuse, but no-one really took any interest beyond 'How was your day'. This infuriated him."

"You know he's diagnosed himself?"

"As what?"

"A high-functioning sociopath."

Mycroft gave a short, loud laugh. Not unlike a bark. "Well, yes. Sherlock would love to think that. Most certainly he does like to... Detach himself from his work, but he is no more a sociopath than your or I. In fact, he is rather the opposite."

"What do you mean?"

"All in good time, John. He passed his exams with ease. He knew the marking scheme better than the examiners and filled the A* quota perfectly. He went to Oxford, which pleased our parents immensely. They were proud he managed to turn his life around. That is, because they didn't see him. He was more alone than ever, he was in unfamiliar surroundings, which did nothing to make him at ease; he had no friends whatsoever and he took up smoking."

"But what about nicotine patches? He told me that it was 'impossible' to have a smoking habit."

"I'm certain he did say that, but he used to smoke several packets a day. Unfortunately for him though, I tipped off everyone within a five mile radius not to sell him any... Which is regrettably why he started buying cannabis off of a man in the same building. It changed him. It made him... Absent. He was no longer the strong, unmovable personality that he used to be, instead a weak, broken man was in his place. He was so suggestible, to the point that he had to be talked off of the roof one night."

"No. Sherlock would never..."

"Now, yes. Of course not. He has you, John"

"But I'm not... We're not..."

"Not conventionally, but I can see that you very clearly adore each other." Upon seeing the look on my face he smiled and said, "In a very masculine way, and one that will most likely never be discussed between you."

"You know what, this conversation has gotten way out of my comfort zone, I think I'm going to go now."

"Would you like me to drop you back?"

"Please."

Bloody hell.

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><p><strong>Reviews make the world go round. Any suggestions, things you would like to see are welcome :)<strong>


	4. Four AM

**AN: A bit of filler before the next chapter, where John has a look through Sherlock's criminal record. Thought of it whilst listening to Moonlight Sonata, I advise reading whilst listening to it :)**

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><p>Poor Sherlock. I was only scratching the surface when I said he was alone. Imagine being ignored throughout your youth so much that you put up defensive barriers that big. No wonder he's unsociable, he's had no experience. He grew up either being insulted or left alone.<p>

And by the way Mycroft spoke, It seemed like he attempted suicide in University. It's odd, he puts up this big act most of the time, but sometimes a comment will be said, and then... something will break through. You can see it behind his eyes, a moment of surprise and then sadness, over in half a second and invisible to the casual observer. Oh god. Poor Sherlock.

The most surreal thing happened this morning, It was pitch black and about four AM. I woke up shockingly early, I have no idea why. That wasn't the strange thing though, it was what happened when I went downstairs.

I heard music the second I opened my bedroom door. It was a single violin. Sherlock. He was beautifully and perfectly playing Moonlight Sonata, and it was the saddest thing I have ever heard. I padded towards the living room, where he had opened all of the windows and blinds; it was freezing cold and the only source of light was the moon, giving everything an eerily silver glow. Sherlock was standing in front of the open window facing outward, eyes closed and drinking in the melancholic tones. They melted into my ears like warm honey and stirred the strangest feeling in my chest. I leant against the window frame and just wondered at the oddly beautiful sight before me.

I closed my eyes and just listened, imagined champagne and footsteps, shined shoes echoing on marbled floors, silk and gloves. My head swayed from side to side in time with the strings, catching every last note as it spun through the air. I was lost in a forest of soft and sweet music, gliding through the trees, feet barely grazing the uneven ground. When the last note ended, Sherlock merely stood there, violin at his chin, for a minute or two. I continued to say nothing, all the while wondering if this was some preposterous dream I was having. Finally, he placed the violin on the desk beside him, it now becoming camouflaged in the mass of papers, books and general souvenirs picked up from one of our exploits through London.

Without turning around, he simply said, "When did you come in?"

"A few minutes ago."

"Did I wake you?"

"I don't know, It was probably the temperature though." I yawned and crossed the room to join him at his side. "Why don't you close the bloody windows?"

"I like the cold, it's... numbing."

"Yeah, numbing to the point of pneumonia. It's January, Sherlock."

"Your point being?"

"We don't open the windows in the day, let alone when the sun's down. You'll catch your death."

He turned his head to face mine and smiled. "Have it your way, then." When he spoke, his breath danced out in front of him, mingling with mine. I carefully closed the window to my left and drew the curtain around it. Sherlock did the same, albeit more forcefully.

"John."

"Mmm."

"This is pointless, I can't see you anymore."

"Well..." I said, pointedly. "There's this brilliant new thing called a light switch, If you stepped out of the 1880s, you'd know about it." I flicked the switch and we were both bathed in a soft orangey glow. It casted shadows over the walls, and made both of our faces look blemishless to the point of photoshop. He looked ethereal. As if Sherlock was a mind reader, he gave a half smile and said, "Who needs candlelight. Tea?"


	5. Data

**AN: I cannot begin to explain the amount of research I did for this chapter, regarding laws, acts, penalties etc.  
>Also, being English, I write the date DDMM/YY. So you might be a_ bit_ confused if you're American (or from anywhere else where they write the date differently.) Also if you translate Sherlock's mother's maiden name, you might get a nice surprise. And yes, the Derren is named after Derren Brown.**

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><p>I ran my forefinger over the smooth, cream folder, nearly slicing my hand on it's edge in the process. Should I really be doing this? I know I didn't force Lestrade to give it to me, but it feels so wrong. Why am I such a creep? I get odd feelings about a guy and instead of talking to him about it, I interrogate his family and thumb through his police record. Nice going, John.<p>

I can't. It's practically stalking. Okay, stalking with the consent of a Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard but even so, I can't.

He's just texted me saying 'We've run out of bicarbonate of soda. Please get more. SH.'  
>Well, at least he said please. I slide the unsurprisingly bulky folder under my shirts in the bottom of my dresser. Ha. Try finding that, Holmes. Actually, I won't jinx it. I'll come back tomorrow to find it bloodstained and have corrections scrawled all over it in navy fountain pen.<p>

I trekked out to the nearest Tesco to pick up some bicarb and a six pack of ale, meanwhile trying to not beat up the self-service checkout with a crowbar. On returning home I found Sherlock sitting with his left hand in a bowl of icy water.

"You alright?"

"Yes."

"Want to explain the bowl?"

"To hold water."

"Yes.. Okay Sherlock, why are you being an arsehole?"

"You're just not asking the right questions. I'm giving you the answers to what you're asking."

"Fine. Why do you have your hand in a bowl of nearly freezing water?"

"I'm taking all of the feeling out of it."

"You want to experiment on your hand?"

"On my fingers, yes. I'm not going too sever them, just assess how much blood is drawn from different sized finger pricks."

"...And you want to make it as painless as possible?"

"Obviously. Self harming is not in my nature, John."

"Do you want that bicarb?"

"Just leave it on the side, thanks."

I placed the small pot on the kitchen table and headed upstairs, mumbling about insane flat mates and their inability to explain themselves. Upon entering my room, I could feel the file staring at me through the drawer and found myself thinking, 'What harm could it do?' So I knelt down and slid out the buff coloured folder.

This is what was inside it.

Police National Computer enf. 1974  
>Authorised: DI Lestrade, Gregory<p>

Surname: Holmes  
>Forename(s): Sherlock<br>Gender: Male  
>Ethnicity: White British<br>Date of birth: 6th January 1976  
>Place of birth: Duchy Hospital, Harrogate, North Yorkshire<br>Height: 184cm  
>Weight: UNKNOWN (N. Extremely variable)<br>Parent(s): Siger Holmes, Violet Holmes (née Bricoler)  
>Sibling(s): Mycroft Holmes, Occupation UNKNOWN<br>Current Address(es): 221B Baker St. London NW1 6XE  
>With: John Hamish Watson<br>Current telephone number: 07973 843 132

Police Records of Cautions, Reprimands, Final Warnings and Convictions

20/07/90  
><strong>Reprimand <strong>Trespassing

07/04/92  
><strong>Reprimand <strong>Impersonating a police officer

13/02/94  
><strong>Caution<strong> Impersonating a police officer

29/12/95  
><strong>Caution<strong> Impersonating a police officer

01/06/01  
><strong>Final Warning<strong> Impersonating a police officer

08/08/02  
><strong>Conviction<strong> Impersonating a police officer

30/08/04  
><strong>Conviction<strong> Impersonating a police officer

Police Records of Arrests

05/03/94  
>Road Traffic act 1934<br>Driving without possession of an authorised vehicle.  
>Notes: Vehicle seized (see below)<br>Driving ban 9 months  
>Fine <em>A.N Fine paid by Mycroft Holmes (see above)<em>

05/03/94  
>Theft act 1968<br>Taking without consent and joyriding a vehicle.  
>Notes: Vehicle in question is Aston Martin DB9<br>No fingerprints on vehicle  
>No evidence of forced entry<br>Vehicle seized  
>Fine <em>A.N Fine paid by Mycroft Holmes (see above)<em>

26/02/97  
>Criminal Justice and Public Order act 1994<br>Tresspassing upon the land(s) of The Diogenes Club  
>Notes: No evidence of forced entry<br>Prosecuted by Derren Major  
>Defended by Ronald Cogan <em>A.N Employed by Mycroft Holmes (see above)<em>

19/10/01  
>Misuse of drugs act 1971<br>Possession and use of benzoylmethylecgonine (cocaine).  
>Notes: 100ml 7% solution<br>Immediate custody  
>Sent to secure drug rehabilitation facility without consent<br>Fine _A.N Fine paid by Mycroft Holmes (see above)_

28/02/06  
>Theft act 1968<br>Trespassing Illegally upon 32 Halliwick Rd, Barnet, Greater London N10 1AB with an intent to steal or inflict unlawful damage to the building and item(s)  
>Notes: Police were notified by C. Jackson (30 Halliwick Rd.)<br>Two days sentence _A.N Sentence negotiated by Mycroft Holmes (see above)_

Pretty damn impressive, I was thinking. He impersonated a police officer when he was 16, successfully stole an Aston Martin DB9 at the age of 18... Then my eye caught the violation stamped '19/10/01'. This must have been what Mycroft mentioned. He would have been 26, and injecting cocaine. The poor man. The poor, poor man. Imagine being so unstable, probably looking like death and as thin as a rake, and you get forced into rehab against your will. I can imagine it, white walls, square meals, compulsory family visits. So...dull. I then noticed that all arrests were taken care of by Mycroft. He paid all the fines. He hired lawyers. He got Sherlock only two days for housebreaking. My respect for the man skyrocketed.

So... I'd better run you through the brilliant, horrible and completely surprising events of the past twenty four hours.  
>There I was last night, downstairs, and shuffling mugs around the kitchen, trying to find one with no remains in to house a decent cup of tea. Then the man himself pads into the room, barefooted and with a bandage around his left hand.<p>

"Experiment go well?" I didn't look at him. I was worried he'd see something behind my eyes that I was unable to hide.

"Excellent results. I just need to use another subject to compare and then these should prove extremely useful."

"Good. Cuppa?"

"John."

"Yes?"

"You're not looking at me."

"I know."

"Why?"

"Is it necessary?"

He didn't respond. I put down the cream mug that was previously in my hand and turned to face him. I don't know what I expected to see. He was Sherlock. He's always been Sherlock. No tears, no declarations of love. Nothing. No sudden sadness in his face that I thought knowing about him would enable me to see; like putting on a pair of 3D glasses and watching everything slide into full panoramic beauty.

I then did something I will probably regret for a long time to come. I slid my arms between his, drew myself closer and hugged him. I buried my face in the crook of his neck and exhaled. His heart was hammering, I've never felt one so fast. He acted like he didn't quite know what to do at first, then he encircled me with his own pale, long arms and closed the small amount of distance remaining. He softened and we moulded into each other. I felt him inhale the scent of my hair and when he exhaled, his breath was jagged, as if it pained him to breathe. Something suddenly dawned on me. I leaned back and placed my hand on his forehead. He had a terrible fever. I stepped back and looked at him. He looked back as if I was insane.

"When was the last time you ate?"

"Umm... A day or two ago."

"Sherlock, you're not even on a bloody case!"

"I wasn't hungry."

"Right, I'm calling an ambulance."

"Why? Just give me a cold and flu tablet and let me rest."

I looked at him, swallowed and said "That won't help if you have pneumonia." He gazed beck at me, blinked a few times, then collapsed.

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><p><strong>I am an evil person, for that, I apologise. I now have the rest of the story planned though, so that's something.<strong>


	6. Weather forecast at Glastonbury

**AN: This is what I do when I am avoiding homework. That's why this chapter is slightly longer then the rest, Spanish coursework ;D  
><strong>**We join our lovesick hero just after Sherlock collapses. The sentances are deliberately a bit short and choppy, as it's a diary entry.**

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><p>Oh god.<p>

"Sherlock! Sherlock..." I knelt down next to him and shook his shoulders, forgetting everything I'd ever learnt, medically. Shit. Shit. Shit. Buggery fucking bollocks. I scrambled around the floor, looking for a phone, before reaching up to the counter and retrieving the one I'd placed moments earlier. I dialled 999, and a woman picked up immediately.

"Hello, what is the nature of your emergency?"

"An ambulance. Please. Please. My friend's just collapsed, he's breathing but I think he has pneumonia and it's been untreated..." My hands were shaking, heart hammering. I could hear my voice wavering but I didn't really care.

"Okay. Can you tell me where you are?"

"221B Baker Street."

"We have an ambulance on it's way, but keep talking to me until it arrives. What's your name?"

"John. John Watson. I'm a doctor but I can't think right now. I can't... I can't."

"Just take deep breaths, John. Now who is it that's collapsed? Can you tell me about him?"

"His name's Sherlock Holmes. He's 36."

"Has he had any past chest infections?"

"Not that I know of... He's very resilient. He barely eats or sleeps though, and I know he has had drug problems in the past."

"You're doing really well, John. As you probably know, feinting when fighting a particularly nasty virus or infection is not common, but certainly not unheard of. Is there anyone with you that can tell the paramedics where to go?"

"Yeah- Mrs. Hudson. I'll just.. just call her now." I shouted downstairs something about answering the door, but I don't quite remember. I heard sirens, then the blue lights. They were visible even with the curtains drawn. The sirens were so loud, it felt like my eardrums were going to burst. I was aware of the fact I was kneeling beside Sherlock, with my head on his chest, I wasn't aware of the tears cascading down my face until a man came from behind me and pulled me away. I protested, saying I knew what I was doing but he sat me down whist a woman pulled an oxygen mask over Sherlock's face and with another man lifted him onto a scarlet stretcher. An orange blanket was laid across it. They carried him down the stairs, the man might have been talking to me, hell, I might have even been replying to him, I can't remember though.

I wasn't really thinking about my surroundings, only about how much I'd let Sherlock down, and how I should have noticed the symptoms before. If he didn't make it, It would be my fault. If he didn't make it... No. No. I wouldn't let that happen. I was suddenly aware that they had taken Sherlock away. In my shocked, and to be frank, insane state of mind, that was the worst thing that anyone could have done. I sprinted down the stairs, taking them two at a time and caught the paramedics as they were coming up to the ambulance.

"I'm coming with you."

"I'm sorry, but the ambulance is very full as it is. And we need to be quick."

"Please. I have to... I have to. I can't leave him."

"I understand but unless you're a relation or you're his partner, you just can't."

"No... I'm his.. boyfriend. Please."

She sighed and gestured inside. I climbed in.

I watched and knew exactly what they were doing. Checking his heart rate, feeling his chest to check which side was slightly deflated, administering him with much needed oxygen. The sirens. The lights. When I close my eyes I still hear them. I still feel the ambulance the doors were banged open and Sherlock was gone again. Just before he disappeared I caught another glimpse of the shock blanket poking out from underneath him. I bowed my head and descended the cold metal steps into A&E.

What was possibly worse than the ambulance ride however, was the wait. I was in the waiting room when the first signs of sunlight were streaming in through the slatted blinds. I didn't notice I was still in my pajamas until someone sat next to me and handed me some folded clothes. I turned to see Mycroft. He simply blinked at me and nodded to the clothes. I went to the toilets to change. When I returned, he was in the same position. Just looking foreward. He wasn't thinking, his eyes weren't observing, just looking. I sat down next to him and placed my pajamas on the chair the other side of me. It didn't matter, it wasn't exactly like there was a shortage of seats. "This isn't your fault, you know."I didn't look at him, just at my feet. My feet became very interesting to me at that point. If I stared at them for long enough they seemed to shrink away from me.

"John, Sherlock is a very closed person. The symptoms are difficult to spot anyway, even he didn't notice them."

"But it's not his job to notice them." My voice was strained. I hadn't spoken in hours. "It's not his responsibility. It's mine. I'm supposed to make sure he eats and doesn't OD on nicotine, I'm supposed to look after him."

"Believe it or not, Sherlock managed for quite a few years on his own without you."

"No he didn't!"

Mycroft was silent. Then, "So Gregory gave you Sherlock's criminal record then."

"If it wasn't for you, Sherlock would be in some dirty alley with a needle in his arm. You bailed him out of every single problem he got into."

"And if it wasn't for you, Sherlock would have taken a poisonous pill and been found by students the next morning. You have saved my brother's life more times than any of us can count."

I gave a short, hollow laugh and replied with, "Missed a trick with the bacterial pneumonia though, didn't I?"

He didn't reply, just looked up and rested his head against the wall. A couple of hours later, I went to get a cup of tea, having not slept or eaten since lunchtime the previous day. Before I left the room however, I turned back to Mycroft.

"You want something?"  
>He shook his head.<p>

* * *

><p>Remember, days and days ago when I said pacing aids thinking? Well the hospital cleaners should have paid me for how much I polished the floor with the underside of my shoes. Then, finally a nervous young doctor with a clipboard stopped me in my tracks.<p>

"John Watson?"

"Yes?"

I clearly looked worried or panicked because he shook his head. before saying, "No, no, everything's fine. Mr Holmes is just waking up. Would you like to see him?"

I nodded, so he led me down a sickeningly sterile corridor before coming to a room with a single bed and one very ill, very messy-haired man in it. I hesitantly edged in and sat down on a white plastic chair. It was horrible looking at him, but I couldn't seem to look away. He had a peripheral cannula in his left arm. Ah. So they were giving him a steady stream of antibiotics through IV then. There was an X-ray of his chest on the wall. I noticed a white cloud on his left lung then looked down at the man before me. I could have prevented this. I could have noticed the symptoms and stopped this with a few antibiotics but no, the great John Watson has to go and dick around after his flatmate's family asking for stories. I forcibly got back into the chair, and this made Sherlock stir.

I didn't move. Not an inch. He spoke.

"John." His voice was hoarse and raspy.

"Did I wake you?"

"Yes."

"The doctor told me you were already awake."

"I went back to sleep. Sleep is good." He slowly closed his eyes again.

"You alright? It seems the antibiotics have had a rather intoxicating affect on you."

"It would seem so. But I don't care. Because Mycroft is not here."

"He is."

"Yes, okay John. He's here. But he's not _here_ here."

I raised an eyebrow, so he continued. "Only Mycroft would give you that jumper."

We both started laughing, which in Sherlock's case quickly turned into coughing. I poured him some water. He drank it. I took this moment of silence to ask what had been on my mind for nearly 12 hours.

"Why didn't you tell me you were ill?"

He shifted his weight a bit so that he was sitting upright. I could see his ribcage through the wide arms of the hospital issue nightgown he was wearing.

"It wasn't relevant."

"Is it relevant now? With you having to have oxygen and antibiotcs pumped into you? With an X-Ray of your lung looking like the weather forecast at Glastonbury?"

"I didn't know how bad it was."

"But you knew it was bad, nonetheless. You have to tell me, Sherlock. You have to. I don't want to see you like this."

He looked down and shook his head. "Some things are easy to say. Some things are difficult to say."

"What's difficult to say?"

"If It wasn't so difficult, I would say it."

"You can." I gestured around. "I think you're in a position where you can pretty much say anything. Hey, at least Mycroft hasn't come in yet."

"I don't like hospitals. Therefore when I am ill I like to go on as normal until it goes away."

"We wouldn't be here if you didn't carry on as normal. We could have sorted this out quickly."

"A few years ago I was put in hospital against my own will and it feels very much like a prison to me." He blinked, and looked me up and down. "But of course, you already knew. You and Mycroft go a lot further than a jumper, it seems. And you say I'm keeping secrets? Tut tut."

"No, that's not-"

"The same? Why?"

"Because you could have died!" At me shouting, he blinked very rapidly and looked at the wall, not saying anything. I took this as my cue to leave.

* * *

><p>After some lengthy discussions with Dr. Turner and Sherlock, we decided on what was best for him. Sherlock wanted to get out of hospital as soon as possible, claiming it was dull. Dr. Turner reminded him that he nearly died and he avoided my gaze. We made a deal that Sherlock would comply with doctor's orders and stay in hospital, but only as long as necessary. He would stay at home for as much as he could. The days went slowly. I would take shorter shifts at the clinic, and then get the bus to the hospital and sit by his bed until visiting hours were over, when I would get the bus back to Baker Street. Mycroft offered me a car, but I declined. I didn't want to be in debt to him.<p>

What you must understand, is how difficult the past couple of weeks have been for me. Sherock hasn't been himself. Even now we're home... he's so distant. I don't think he likes being weak, the hospital seems to have shaken him. He thinks I don't notice. When he talks to me, he's lively and confident and himself, but as good an actor as he is, it's still not 100%. It feels like he's holding something back, and that every smile is forced. Sometimes, when he doesn't know I'm looking at him, he's so... sad. It's like he thinks that if no-one can see him, there's no point putting effort in to be happy. Every morning, I make him breakfast. Brown bread with butter and tea.

He eats while I take his heart rate, place my hand on his chest and ask him to breathe so I can compare his lungs and measure out his antibiotics. It's a solid, happy routine. And I think it's the only time I see him properly. For example, this morning. I made four rounds of toast and put the kettle on. He came into the room and gave me the biggest, most bashful smile I'd ever seen in spite of himself. It made me want to cry tears of joy. I buttered a slice of toast and shoved in his mouth whilst he took a seat at the table and started skimming the newspaper. He gently cuffed me around the ear and ripped a piece off with his teeth.

I reached into the overhead cupboard and drew out my stethoscope and Sherlock's pill box. I picked out the right combination of antibiotics without checking and handed them to him along with a cup of Earl Grey. He swallowed them all and took a large gulp of tea. I sat across from him and slowly chewed my toast, drinking tea in between each bite, I looked up. Sherlock was looking at me.

"Stop deducing."

"Sorry."

When I finished eating, Sherlock sat on the table and started to unbutton his nightshirt. I placed the buds of the stethoscope in my ears and rubbed the diaphragm between my palms to warm it up. He started swinging his legs.

"I'm not a child."

"And yet mysteriously you still act like one, Sherlock."

"I can stand a cold stethoscope."

"Fine, Fine. Right, your heart's brilliant, let me feel your lungs."

I placed my hand on his chest. "Breathe in. Great. Now breathe out." He did. I felt him rise and fall under my palm. It was so peaceful.  
>I live for these mornings. I simply stayed there, feeling him breathe under me.<p>

"John. You've still got your hand on my chest."

"Yes. Yes, right. Yes. Sorry, Still half asleep."

He raised an eyebrow. It never really does get any better.

* * *

><p><strong>Seriously, reviews help, they really do. And I can always do with a bit more constructive criticism. <strong>


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